Flotsam and Jetsam
by mistrali
Summary: A collection of my Tolkien drabbles, some for Tolkien Weekly at LJ. Will include content from both LotR and the Silmarillion, as well as related works such as Unfinished Tales and HoME. Ratings and warnings vary, but won't be included unless the drabble is rated T.
1. Weeding

Weeding

Frodo crept over the threshold, hoping not to disturb Bilbo's nap. "Had a good time at Farmer Maggot's, boy?" Oh, damn. So Bilbo hadn't been asleep.

"Er… what? No, I was at… at Tuckborough, visiting Fatty Bolger."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. "What a pity. I ran into Maggot last week; I must've let it slip how much you loved weeding the garden, and I was hoping he would take it to heart. Certainly it would be a just reward for your, ah, _kindness_ in removing his beautifully cultivated mushrooms." Frodo groaned. "I spent four hours pulling thistles because of you?!"


	2. Industry

Unlike Armenelos, where heat was abated by streams, breezes and woods, the first year at Emerië was maddening. Sheep-shearing in midsummer was taxing work even for such a strong woman as Erendis, and the stink of manure made it worse.

Domestic preparations, too, were not without incident. To her chagrin, she found weevils in the flour, and ants devouring honey which had been weeks in the making.

This industry was a mixed blessing. It kept her mind from anger at Aldarion; the chatter of women and the innocent attentions of little Ancalimë reminded her that a husband was not all-consuming.


	3. Hoary

Hoary

"You cannot resist a tale, I know, like most of your kind – so go on. What is the meaning behind your beard?"  
Círdan grinned. "How like you, Olórin, to ask me such a question. Your curiosity has not abated since I saw you last; indeed, your nose has lengthened, if that were possible."  
Gandalf laughed. "I quite agree, old friend… but you are avoiding the question."  
"No, not at all. Merely prolonging the answer. I am hoary, and winter has set in; one so well-travelled as yourself can forgive an old elf his wandering, surely?"  
"All right, point taken!"


	4. Harvest

Harvest

Nienna harvests the Eldar's cares and sorrows, takes their grief upon herself. She bears her burdens without question. Her patience, her faith in the order of things, unnerves Olórin.

"You are like one of Oromë's foals," she tells him once, touching his shoulder as if to stay him. "Always champing at your restraints, forever wandering from where you were set. You must stop this restlessness, child, and learn to wait."

_Waiting chafes me,_ he wants to say. "But mistress, I have not your wisdom."

"Plant a sapling, then; see how it flourishes with care, and wilts when it is hurried."


	5. Rapture

Long evenings of song and dance under the stars were delightful. They gave the monarchs a chance to spend precious time with Luthien, or relax with their courtiers. Factions were laid aside: politics had no place among such beauty.

Melian savoured the intricate, delicate pieces played in autumn. She would cup her chin in one hand, a faraway look in her usually clear grey eyes. The king loved seeing his wife enraptured: it was a fine minstrel indeed who could move Melian to wonder. As he watched her, he often imagined how he must have looked at their first meeting.


	6. Evolution

A/N: This is set before the Awakening of the Elves.

* * *

Yet from Morgoth's breeding of such hideous creatures, with tongues of flame and scales a sword might not pierce, came something fairer. For having created the Uruloki he found they had hearts and wills and thoughts of their own, and would not cleave to him as machines.

Some remained with him and became fearsome indeed; but many left Utumno and made their homes in dense forests, or burrowed into desert sands, or lurked in swamps and lakes. Yet others over the course of time grew wings and took to the air, and these became the birds so beloved of Manwë.


	7. Hither Shores

Hither Shores

"These creatures are strange, Bombadil. Their voices -" she gestured at the writhing, deformed elf on the forest floor, and then at her own ears. "They are not harmonious."

"He is in pain, my lady," said Tom, waving a hand; the creature stilled. "You have spent your days flowing from sandbar to bank, as water among the lily-stems, and stone under the water. He is but flesh."

"Will he be silent now?" she asked, looking back.

"His body shall be; his spirit has entered the halls where mortals go."

"What are halls," asked the river-daughter, "and what is a mortal?"


End file.
